Love in a Looking-Glass World
by neithersaintnorsinner
Summary: Lizzie Bennet Diaries universe. The events during and around the first Netherfield party, from Caroline's point of view. Complete.
1. that cool, insolent smile

The summer Caroline was twelve, they had two straight weeks of rain in Manila, and her father taught her to play poker.

Strange how that's the vacation she remembers most fondly. Not Copenhagen or São Paulo or Agra, but that tiny, soggy cottage in the Philippines. She'd only then realized how prolific the Lee clan actually was. Everyone crowded around an ancient table, playing hand after hand for toothpicks instead of poker chips. Bing might have had a knack for chemical equations and cellular pathways, but he turned out to be hopeless against Caroline at cards.

She can still recall the taste of that thrill, her tidy pile of toothpicks growing steadily larger.

But that had been _before_, before everything having to do with the word "family" became a blurred mess of disillusionment and obligation. Now vacations are warmer and more glamorous, and Caroline would kill for the mucky weather and chaotic closeness of that summer.

She never mentions it, though, taking to her expected roles with belying ease. Caroline Lee, socialite, sorority president, executive, sophisticate. There is a tally in her head of wins against losses. Caroline does well. Her blood cools. She grasps at her newfound success, revels in the potency of beauty mixed with subterfuge.

It's sweetly habit-forming.

Darcy manages to elude her skill, and he is frustratingly, endlessly fascinating for it. She can observe his habits easily enough. He stirs his coffee three times, counterclockwise. He wears softer colors at home. He speaks with a touch more formality right after returning from the opera. Impassive facial expressions and reserve are his strengths, however, and even after years of friendship Caroline finds herself wondering exactly where she stands with him.

Somehow he is her brother's best friend. Darcy is disciplined where Bing is too open, too easy. But they are both that rarest of rare breeds: fundamentally decent men, and she supposes that is enough to bind them. Caroline does not share their virtue; she is merely the hanger-on, a jealous realist in the shadow of Bing's naiveté and Darcy's old-fashioned principles. She watches and _wants_, with the defiant yearning of a person young and unversed in denial.

So when Bing moves to this godforsaken town for the summer, and Darcy decides to follow, Caroline tears herself away from L.A. It's a selfish, almost proprietary thing.

She needs them.


	2. a certain hardy skepticism

She misses L.A. immediately. An unfortunate sentiment for a woman who spends so much time wearing indifference as an accessory, but Caroline has no desire to reflect on that injustice. There is something captivating about L.A., with its veneer of cool sophistication and restless, cruel nature. She _feels_ for that city.

Darcy, dissatisfied by default, shares her pain. Bing remains blind to their distaste for rusticity.

He practically bounds into the room when the idea of having a party (re)occurs to him: "The house seems so empty all the time! There's no point to all this space if only three people are around to enjoy it. C'mon, how great would it be to have our new friends over?"

"I imagine it would be wonderful, if we could call anyone in this town a friend," Darcy answers.

"I think he has a specific 'friend' in mind," Caroline gives her brother an appraising look. "Bing, we _just_ had her over for dinner."

Darcy is silent for a moment. "You're quite serious about this idea?"

"Of course I'm serious! You could use the break from work, man, we're on vacation! Anyway, I already promised Lydia."

Caroline exchanges an unenthusiastic eyebrow message with Darcy at this admission. She isn't opposed to socializing, but her standards are more particular than an evening with a group of nobodies in a mediocre town.

Her brother doesn't notice. "What do you think, Caroline? You've worked so hard on this place, and no one's even seen it since you had it painted."

He draws her into a one-armed hug, and she smiles in spite of herself. Bing is an exception to how easily the word 'no' tends to roll off her tongue.

Their parents are fond of reminding them that family is all they have—that they are alone in this country that is not theirs, and mothers and fathers will not always be around.

Caroline takes it to heart; her brother has yet to disillusion her, and she loves him for that singularity. Bing is not nearly so untrusting. He resists the exclusivity of inner circles, but he is bound to her nonetheless, by blood and conscience and sweetness of temper.

She lets out a breath. "All right, fine, since you've promised to do it anyway. Jane is a doll, and even Lizzie is…compelling."

_Compelling_ is how Darcy described Lizzie at Carter's, and he looks unsettled by the repetition.

"I suppose we'll just have to deal with the youngest one," Caroline continues, but her mouth tastes blandly metallic now, as though she's swallowed second-rate wine. "I swear, I don't know how I let you talk me into these things."

He laughs. "Don't worry; this is going to be great! And you can stay up in your room if you really don't want to join in, Darcy."

"I would hardly hide upstairs like a rude child. I suppose if I must take part, I must," he says, resigned.

Caroline watches Bing leave, her hair falling forward. "I think that was an actual _spring_ in his step."

"We may have to be on the lookout for cartoon birds at this affair."

* * *

The problem with this town is it lends itself too easily to last resorts. Caroline is _working_ on a Friday evening, out of sheer boredom; this may be an all-time low.

Her brother is off with Jane, Darcy has retreated behind an impenetrable wall of inscrutable reveries, and she is half-heartedly contemplating screaming for the satisfaction of the company of echoes. It's a welcome distraction when she gets a text from Louise.

Caroline doesn't actually have many close friends in L.A. Despite her busy calendar there, her social circle is necessary trimming, formalistic rather than affectionate. Louise is an anomaly in that sense. She had been Caroline's "big sister" at Kappa Kappa Gamma, both a mentor and a friend. There is a shared disquiet between them**—**a common thorn of situation and family, mingled with the sensibility of worse fates than privileged resentment. They ignore it in favor of double ristrettos and six-inch Louboutins.

She taps out a reply to Louise's message, adding:

C: _Feel like making a trip Saturday? B's having a party_

L: _The 23rd?_

C:_ Yes_

L: _There's a reception for an exhibit opening at the Getty that night. One of my mother's charities or I'd skip, for you 3_

L: _I'm happy to put the word out, though?_

Louise entertains ambitions for a seat in Congress and, consequently, has a practiced cordiality that is nevertheless charming; she is well-liked and well-connected. A word to Louise and Netherfield can be overwhelmed with guests…

Caroline's finger wavers over the screen. Asking more people has the advantage of affording a greater human barrier between Lizzie and Darcy. But Darcy tends to draw into himself, uselessly and unhappily, when too many people are around.

C: _Actually, that would be great- just keep it small_

L:_ Of course. I know how Darcy gets!_

C:_ You're a doll, L. We could use some familiar faces out here in Nowhere, CA_

L:_ Has it been awful?_

C:_ Completely pathetic. The people in this town are—let's just say I hope it isn't anything in the water_

L:_ Switch to gin to be safe_

C_: Hah, I think I can do that! How's dear L.A.?_

L:_ It's been gorgeous here. Come visit soon! I miss our lunches at Lucques. xoxo _

She watches the message flicker, then dim, before turning her attention back to discontent.


	3. the bored haughty face

Darcy's bowtie is lopsided as he comes down the stairs. His fingers keep fumbling with it, to no avail. A tiny curl of annoyance curves in Caroline's chest. The man is _nervous_.

She moves to help him anyway. Compassion is a capricious friend; absent when useful, constant when unnecessary. Her hands are deft, precise. She glances at their reflections, side by side, in the bay window.

"Yes," she says at nothing in particular, straightening the bowtie to her satisfaction.

His shirt is attractively crisp. He isn't wearing cologne. He feels warm. She steps away.

"Thank you," he manages a tight-lipped smile. His eyes flick over her hair, flawless after two hours of styling, but he attempts no further conversation.

She hears Bing's excited step from the other room at the sound of the doorbell. Her brother never quite mastered the concept of lowering expectations to stave off disappointment.

Caroline takes the party in doses, slipping away discreetly between hostess duties. It's practically a tradition for distasteful events. She sips wine with her guests and swallows gin in the kitchen; she exchanges false smiles for obligatory pleasantries.

The Bennets arrive wrapped in last season's fashions and a certain disarming sincerity. Not exactly a grand entrance, though her men are predictably entranced.

Lizzie and Jane look equal to the scene of cater waiters and couture. Impressed, but poised. It provokes Caroline, the way they can just _float in_, just like that. She spent years learning to be at ease—or more accurately, practicing the affectation of ease—in this lily-white world. It's a scratch on the edge of her palm, trivial, yet inevitably chafing every time she forgets it's there; a persistent aggravation that never has a chance to heal.

She still drops a smile before excusing herself for another drink. Appearances and all that.

* * *

Apparently, Louise invited Jonathan Hurst. He must have slipped in late.

Caroline stops at the door, narrowing her eyes- the Hursts aren't much for society lately. They had risen to affluence trading in steel, but private and professional mismanagements threaten to tarnish the family distinction. Their wealth is corroding along with their industry; they are more fashion than fortune of late.

No one looks to Jonathan for rescue. He might have been clever, but talent requires application, and he can charitably be called a libertine for the way he indulges his many vices.

"You know there are waiters who can _serve_ you drinks in the other room," she says finally.

He is observing the large liquor cabinet in the furthest corner of the kitchen, hands stretching his pockets. "I prefer pouring my own. Waiters always hold out on you."

She makes a half-amused sound of acknowledgement. "What are you doing here? You hate Darcy."

"Hardly. It wouldn't be surprising if I did, though, would it? He's so _distinguished_, such a wunderkind," he pauses to roll the words around in his mouth, the way he does with his scotch, "So damned respectable. But when have I ever refused an opportunity for the pleasure of your company?"

Hate is perhaps too strong a descriptor, but Jonathan's speech is indistinct through tightened teeth. The fact that he favors his brand of indolence over Darcy's ambition does nothing to stem his envy.

Her grimace is decidedly unladylike. "Please."

"You know, you used to like me well enough," he says frankly, his hand reaching for Darcy's prized 30-year-old Macallan.

"Or maybe you're just less naïve than you used to be," she passes him a glass, "Who knew you were so sentimental?"

Jonathan's lips twitch, too complimentarily to be condescending, and yet— "Only with you, Caroline."

He is busy swirling the scotch in his glass, but his voice is a shade deeper.

She has intimate experience with this feeling. Frustration and veiled rage, like her knuckles are being scraped bloody over asphalt with no sign of relief. She's been single for too long, and she finds the attendant withdrawals…inconvenient.

"If there's ever a Mrs. Hurst, I'll be sure to let her know," Caroline tilts her head with affected sweetness. "When you're ready to join the rest of us," she adds, indicating the door.

There is a satisfying cadence to the clatter of her high heels as she walks out.

* * *

The necklace is lying unceremoniously on the floor just outside the kitchen.

Caroline recognizes it right away; Lizzie paired it surprisingly well with her unremarkable dress. She presses it into her palm. The clasp is broken.

"It belongs to Lizzie."

They are almost the first words Darcy has spoken to her all night. She looks up.

He clears his throat. "She—it must have slipped off earlier; she didn't have it on at dinner."

She tries not to read too much into the fact that Darcy has been staring at Lizzie's neck for the better part of the evening. Something about Lizzie draws his attention repeatedly—but between the woman's lack of elegance, inappropriate family, and outspoken manners, Caroline has yet to sort it out.

"Hmm," she says, carefully neutral. She hasn't quite decided what to do about Lizzie Bennet. "I'll see that she gets it."

It occurs to her that this is a palely familiar scene. They have spent countless hours together at events like this one, occupying themselves with hauteur in private corners, trading smirks for witticisms and disinterest for discontent.

Of late her corners have been silent if not lonely, though, and ridiculously, she _misses _him.

The gin seems to be clawing at Caroline's stomach; she probably shouldn't have spent most of dinner lounging back in her chair instead of eating the osso buco. She sucks in a breath and presses her lips together.

"Are you all right?" His fingers are outstretched towards her.

"Of course," she manages to pick up the pieces of her usual poise. Apropos of nothing, she adds, "You've been awfully quiet tonight."

His chin tucks predictably into his Adam's apple. "I suppose I have been a bit distracted."

Caroline flips her hair. She isn't sure why she says it, why she continues to grope for the grotesque pleasure of ripping at this particular scab.

"I'm sure there are _compelling_ reasons for that."

* * *

There is no shame in strategic retreat; Caroline's read _The Art of War_. She just needs a moment.

She sets Lizzie's necklace down and checks her reflection in the mirror. The bathroom is the main reason Caroline selected this suite of rooms for her own—it's by far the most luxurious—but at the moment there is a throbbing silence that seems to engulf its expanse.

Bing is happy, of course. That much has been readily discernible from his conduct around Jane. She makes a mental note to watch for any…trouble there. Her brother is always so recklessly candid. He makes grand gestures and sweeping statements without due consideration. He clasps, and he lets fall. There are half a dozen women along the Eastern Seaboard, all former titleholders of The Love of Bing's Life, to prove it.

But then that's her brother—all ease and optimism and effortlessness, floating in love where Caroline slashes her way through. In her more desperate moments she wonders if that makes his feelings purer, or less real.

She hasn't had nearly enough to drink. The potential thrill of that thought is tempered by a _crash _outside her door. Caroline pauses to smooth her hair, her dress, before stepping out to investigate.

It's the youngest Bennet sister, and Caroline mentally fumbles with the name before saying, "Lydia."

There is a half-drunk bottle of (unfortunately, excellent) borrowed wine in Lydia's hand. Her shoes are missing; she's paired her shiny dress with knitted wool socks. She looks altogether too gleeful to have been up to any good.

"I kinda got lost," Lydia says by way of explanation, "This house is totes too big for just you guys."

(_No house is too big for me_, Caroline refrains from childishly insisting.)

She would actually rather not know how Lydia managed to get lost enough to wander into an entirely separate wing of the house. She infuses polite concern into her voice.

"Well then, let's get you back to familiar territory. I'm sure your sisters must be worried about you."

"Ugh, please," Lydia snorts, "Jane's off probably hooking up with your bro somewhere and who knows what snoresville stuff Lizzie's doing without a camera to yell too many words to. Maybe commenting on that bougie lettuce we had at dinner—"

She claps a hand over her mouth, and for a second something familiar flickers in her face. Lydia always seemed authentically one-dimensional, but Caroline is too well-versed in façades for it to escape her when one falls away, however briefly.

Lydia promptly destroys the effect by collapsing into a fit of giggles. Caroline takes a steadying breath. She suddenly has a rather visceral understanding of the phrase 'laughing like a hyena'.

"Here," she says unwillingly, noticing Lydia stumble.

The corners of Lydia's mouth perk up. "Wait. I need to use a bathroom. All that wine—"

Caroline has too much self-control to roll her eyes at the woman, but she tilts her head towards the bathroom with more than a little exasperation. She hears a muted exclamation that sounds suspiciously like the word "amazeballs" when Lydia scrambles inside.


	4. at a nod of her head

Caroline spends the rest of the party watching Darcy rearrange his jaw.

There have been whispers about the two of them for as long as they've been friends, rumors that rage across social circles with an assumption of inevitability. Darcy, true to form, has yet to notice. Caroline feigns nonchalance, but something lodges behind her heart. She feels a strange, tender fascination for him and he is eminently suitable for her.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the evening spills over at last. It's late. Lydia is decidedly tipsy, and Lizzie needs to get her home.

"Thanks for being such a good sport about…everything. Good night, Bing," Lizzie smiles, the first full smile she's given all evening, and the effect is startling. The _vibrancy_.

"Darcy, Caroline," she adds as she walks past them. "Thank you, for having us. You were incredible to do all this."

Caroline demurs politely, but Darcy, still dazzled by Lizzie's grin, says nothing. Caroline watches the non-exchange between them. She's fine; it's the world that seems to be hurtling, nauseatingly, like she's caught between two trains rushing in opposite directions. The rush of feeling is unfamiliar. It—hurts.

Bing and Jane disappear somewhere Caroline would rather not think about. She texts Jonathan: _Second floor, east wing. _

She and Darcy see to the rest of the guests. There are dimples at the corners of his mouth when he wishes her good night.

* * *

Jonathan is waiting by her door. There is an annoyingly self-assured smirk playing about his lips. Her mind is a haze, inebriation blurring with repressed anger. His tongue tastes of Will's scotch; her breath catches and spills into her throat…

…she runs her teeth over her bottom lip. The clarity she so desperately seeks is at the edge of her grasp. Her fingers roll into a fist. She's shivering, her skin damp, until at long last the taut rope of tension slacks in a sudden, thrilling rush.

The feeling doesn't last long, but everything is sharper and brighter in relief. Given inputs can be used to achieve desired outcomes. The world makes sense again. She waits patiently for Jonathan to finish, refraining from the impulse to check the state of her cuticles.

He rolls over at last, breathless.

She silently counts to fifteen, then says: "It would never do for you to be seen leaving in the morning."

It's a queenlike dismissal—unapologetic, counterintuitively tactful. He sits up to look at her and Caroline never moves her eyes from the ceiling. She is re-evaluating the events of the party with a fresh mind; something about the evening snags.

"Right, sure."

Jonathan stands in front of her mirror and begins to dress. He lifts up his pants, the keys in his pocket jangling. The grooves alongside his hips seem to form a rude V.

She stands too. There's something soothing about the rustle of silk when she slips into her dressing gown. His shirt is by the bed, tangled with her couture. Caroline extricates it and passes it to him.

There are odd streaks on the floor just here. She's reminded of sock feet and wine and the loose thread that's been bothering her reveals itself—what was it Lydia had said about a camera?

"He's not going to change his mind, you know," Jonathan says, and she realizes he is likewise pulling at loose threads. "So what exactly are you waiting around for?"

Caroline raises her eyebrows, reviewing the words for all their possible implications. "Is this the part where I tear up? Come to a sudden realization about my life? Or," her lips bend upward, mockingly, "Am I just supposed to ask you to _stay_?"

"I don't recall asking to be asked," he tosses her a good-natured grin, and with a final adjustment of his tie, heads for the door. "If you're ever back in L.A. and need a fuck" —there is that smile again—"You have my number."

She laughs at that. It isn't difficult to do it lightly, as though he's said something amusingly charming.

"Always a pleasure, Jonathan."

Caroline waits for him to leave before flipping open her laptop. It's been years since she's used her Facebook, but she needs to start somewhere: Lizzie Bennet


	5. epilogue

Lizzie's videos are—instructive. One vlog casually mentions that Jane has to default on her student loans again; in the very next, she is conveniently smitten with Bing. Never mind the fact that Mrs. Bennet appears to have desired this match without knowing anything _about_ Bing besides the size of his pocketbook. Darling, dutiful Jane would surely never refuse her mother.

Caroline is too familiar with imbalances of affection; she knows what it is, to love someone so much more than they love you, and her brother deserves better. She refuses to trust the appearance of such goodness. There are no ingénues. Jane is like swallowing pure honey; Caroline winces from the shock of oversweet.

She wants to laugh with relief when she learns Lizzie's true opinion of Darcy. There is a troublesome level of obsession there, but hatred certainly simplifies things. Hatred she can work with.

Inconveniently, she learns to like Lizzie, in all the weeks they spend together. The woman has a peculiar sort of charm and Caroline realizes under different circumstances they might be real friends; then again, under different circumstances she'd never have bothered becoming Lizzie's friend. Lies can be a nuisance that way. They are essential but fallible, and they always involve collateral damage.

Caroline does what needs to be done.

The fact remains that the Bennets are lacking in any kind of class or appreciation for the world to which they aspire. She and Darcy understand this. He proceeds to tear that understanding to pieces, inconceivably declaring his love for _Lizzie_, blabbing about Bing and Jane in his mysterious letter; she is red at his betrayal.

It's no insignificant consolation that his feelings are repulsed, and, foolishly, Caroline thinks she can fix things.

(She only ever does what needs to be done.)

Lizzie and Charlotte tear that thought to pieces, too.

* * *

In January Louise disrupts their usual coffee date with a new ring on her left hand. The silk of her Valentino top feels unexpectedly rough against Caroline's fingertips when they hug. She says something congratulatory and commonplace and watches Louise smile dazzlingly between sips of latte. Under the table, her ankles lock.

They spend the next fifteen minutes discussing Chantilly lace. Her ambitious, hard friend is content in quiet sort of way she's never been before. Caroline contemplates the unpleasant sensation near her larynx and leaves in a cool confusion.

She has pointedly neither sought out nor avoided Jonathan for months; in her mind's eye she indifferently crosses his name off an ever-diminishing list.

* * *

When she finds out about Bing, Caroline drinks several fortifying cups of coffee and checks YouTube with what can only be described as perverse interest.

The worst of it is how unfamiliar everything seems. There has always been a certain amount of performance involved with Lizzie's so-called 'diaries'—they are framed, occasionally scripted, and edited together to appear like an approachable, slightly unpolished product—but Gigi, Darcy, and Bing are so _different_ at Pemberley. She feels them tugging away from her like a cluster of balloons, unconstrained while she remains firm.

Bing is the first. She remembers what he went through to get into medical school. She remembers him suffering through the prerequisite coursework and clinical experience, the sleepless months of MCAT preparation, multiple rounds of applications, interview on top of interview demanding he justify his desire to become a doctor, only to realize now, years after everything—

He never even bothered to tell her. About his persistent feelings for Jane, about school, about anything. There is a lingering, furious pain from the whiplash she gets when he calls her, after the fact, from thousands of miles away.

Darcy's assistance with the Wickham affair, at the expense of his own responsibilities, is equally inexplicable. Caroline isn't heartless, though a petty side of her finds the existence of the sex tape rather predictably crass. She simply fails to see how it's Darcy's business—or is he to help every woman who's ever been victimized by George Wickham?

Clearly not; Darcy only bothers with the one. The one with the virtue of a particular last name.

Nothing makes sense. There aren't even any bridges left to burn. The restless aching horror she's tamped down on since November swells beneath her sternum, gnaws at the superficial tissue until she is inflamed.

* * *

Her conversation with Lizzie goes horribly awry. Caroline feels messy, contradictory; all of her mistakes are thrown into vivid relief. Her world is wilting faster than she can collect the falling petals and there is no way to reconstruct it.

She persuades herself it isn't fleeing when she returns to L.A. and spends the weekend soaked in gin. The truth can be so gory.

Still, there is a sharp but exquisite pain that adequately explains why she _keeps watching the damned videos_, like clockwork, behind her closed office door. Her breath snags when she watches Darcy seat himself in frame one morning, even if she's well aware that Lizzie-and-Darcy are a foregone conclusion. When the video ends she is silent for a perfect second before swearing as loudly and emphatically as she can:

"_Fuck_."

Her voice seems wet and shredded and pathetically expressive. Twenty minutes later her desk phone rings and she completes the call, dry-eyed and utterly composed, before flinging the receiver at the window.

* * *

Lizzie and Darcy are blissful in San Francisco, Jane and Bing are cozy in New York, and Caroline spends her summer at the Malibu beach house. She has no use for blemished cities.

They all visit. It's fine. Her fists have been clenched for too long and all she has to show for it are the fingernail grooves embedded in her palms. She manages to compartmentalize rather well, all things considered.

The sun is relentless. They are radiant. Caroline watches the sweat drip down their faces from behind her oversized sunglasses. She spends her days flipping through magazines under an umbrella, powder dry, and just smiles when Bing teases her about not going in the water.

(A year ago she would have made a show of reading, say, Kurt Vonnegut. Now she settles for _The New Yorker _("pedestrian") and French _Vogue _("frivolous"). There is no point to the pretension of well-read anymore.)

On clear nights Caroline grabs her bathing suit and swims alone in the vast expanse of the Pacific. It's stupid and dangerous and the salt water wreaks havoc on her hair, but she does it anyway. Around the hushed rhythm of the waves she can forget the toxic mélange of guilt and hurt and confusion bubbling through her veins; she can make her peace with the way things are.

And if it occurs to her that love is an exercise in treading water and she is _exhausted_, she lets it go.


End file.
